Oh, poor little sick girl
by lettersfromyou
Summary: read if you want


"You've lost a lot of weight." People are worried about you, but you just want them to leave you alone. You don't need any food, you are in fact terrified of gaining weight, but you can't admit that to yourself let alone to anyone else, so you pretend that everything is fine. You can't remember when dieting turned into a full scale obsession with being thinner and thinner and thinnest but you can't worry about that now- all you care about is how to eat as little as possible and get as much exercise as possible to lose even more weight as quickly as you can.

You are cold and you have lost your periods and you're depressed but that is because you are feeling fat and ugly, so whatever you eat is still too much. You know you are heading for trouble but you don't want to think about that now. Let's just lose another pound. Then you might hate yourself a little less. But that doesn't work, either. So you work harder. The weighing becomes more frequent, but it's not about the number on the scale, anymore, it's about how much you can control everything, that feeling of everything going you're way. But then you slip up. Oops, in pop's something chewable, edible, fattening. Then the guilt creeps in, and out come the scales and the laxatives and the gagging reflexes that beg you to stop. But no, you can't stop because that's a sign of weakness, of failing – and you can't fail now, not after everything you've put into this. Then out pour the tears, because you showed a sign of being human, you proved that the metal amour you built around yourself didn't turn you into a robot like everybody thought, it just made it that little bit harder for the suffering to show. You know the tears are real, but no matter how hard you scrub, no matter how much bleach you use, the dirty marks stay on you're face – you're faulty, stained and ruined.

And maybe, maybe one day, someone might come along who would show you are beautiful, inside and out, but you wouldn't believe it, they are just another trick, designed to trip you up, so you'd push them away and end up alone, again.

Poor little sick girl, bounced around between everybody. It's you're fault, it's her fault, no it's his faultfaultfault. Truth is the blame can't be pinned on anybody. You are a matchstick, ready to ignite and burn through everybody who ever cared. You're set to 'destruct.' You're voice is on mute, just in case anyone were to put a glass to you're translucent skin and listen, an ear pressed to the top but you're voice is being bypassed away from them – You've thought of everything, oh, clever little sick girl.

You eat large amounts of food, forbidden food: sometimes you don't even taste it, and then you get rid of it. It makes you feel very bad, ashamed and ill but you simply cannot stop. And so it goes on and on and, you long for help, you don't dare let anyone find out. Quick! Get the handcuffs and pack her off to fat camp! Tie her up in a bone corset and give the councillors a challenge. But don't give her a blade, because she might slice herself up into a million pieces, tape herself back together and waddle all the way home.

Most of you're time is spent in that one room with the toilet and the mirror. You're sanctuary, where you can gaze at the girl opposite, contort her shape, move her mind around her body and turn her into something new. A piece of art, crafted by you're very own hands. Well done, little sick girl, well done. She tries to crawl through, that girl in the mirror, her hands are reaching for you, to contort you're mind, to get revenge on you're soul, but that amour wasn't just for hiding, it was for fighting.

One day, you might let go of this obsession, one day you might be able to smile without it faulting, laugh without someone pressing the 'play' button, you might even be able to eat without the shadows telling you how bad you are. Maybe, one day. You're full of surprises, clever little sick girl. Inside you're tummy is a safe space, where you keep you're weapons. You unlock the door to you're insides and you explore the world of war within you, ripping out the unwanted parts, craving the parts you can never have. You replace the frame work of you're soul and you twist into an unimaginable shape. That shape makes an anorexic girl.

Open up the edges of you're skin and take a peek inside, go on, I dare you...  
Stand on the edge of you're bones and stare down. Stare down into sanity and happiness and reason and jump, but, oh... You forgot about the rope tied tightly around you're ankle, the dirty words weave up through you're calf. You're yanked back up into darkness, just to linger on the edge of that hole. You cannot let anyone find out about this. Otherwise, people might whisperspeaktalkshout at you.  
You listen for the nasty words, the whispers coming from under you're bed, in you're closet, the shadows buried deep in the corners. You listen and you wait. Then the gate is opened and they spill out like a flood, the words mixing together, ! The moat you dug around yourself to stop people from getting in is failing! This moat cannot protect you against this flood of words. The drawbridge is ripped open and you are seeped out, onto the pavement and through the concrete. You are taken downdowndown with those words, ripped open and experimented on. Oh no, poor little sick girl is finally failing. Her lungs aren't opening for her and her heart is refusing to beat. Poor little sick girl is sinking into the dust, and nobody can bring her out. There's nothing left, now, because this, thing, everything that defines who she was has opened her heart and unleashed her monsters and fears and now, now she is only a ghost.


End file.
